Miss You
by MiseryMaker
Summary: Snapshots of the intensity with which Booth and Brennan might miss each other and the "raw despondence" they might be facing at the start of S10. Spoilers for S9 finale and potential unintended S10 spoilers.
1. Chapter 1 - A Solitary Existence

Miss You

_[A/N: Spoilers for the Season 9 finale. Not really up-to-date on other spoilers so I can't say whether there are additional spoilers or not. This is where my brain went trying to guess what might happen next (whether or not they actually showed it on TV)—just my rambling thoughts to pass the time missing Bones on TV. I don't own the show or its characters. This is purely for fun and not intended to infringe on the rightful owners' rights. They deserve all credit and payment (and adoration)._

_Like many of you, I am busy—too busy to keep writing fan-fiction; too busy even to read it except on rare occasions anymore. But it's September, and I'm eager for Bones to return. So, it probably shouldn't surprise me that when I found time to do a little long-overdue yard work and listen to my iPod, a favorite Alanis Morissette song leapt into my shuffled music. Presto! I was blindsided with an idea for a Bones story. How can one with a bent toward misery-making not be inspired by a song with lyrics about "raw despondence?"_

_The song "Torch" has always yanked hard on my angst-loving muse. I think it's great, soulful music, and many of the lyrics fit the situation Bones and Booth face as they start season 10 so well. It captures such raw pain and need and hopelessness in such vivid terms. What stood out to me as I listened to the song this time was that some of the lyrics are remarkably Booth-and-Bones-y. Eerily so. I highly recommend that you listen to it or read the lyrics._

_It's not that I really think anyone on the show will be laying a Torch down and giving up, but I can certainly imagine two people both carrying a brilliant, beautiful Torch for one another through what appears to be a very dark time._

_Thanks for stopping here and dusting off my part of this fan-fiction site. Eager to hear what you think. ~MiseryMaker]_

* * *

><p>Miss You<p>

Chapter 1 – A Solitary Existence

* * *

><p>"Prisoner 22705, stand up." The voice on the intercom crackled loudly, shattering the echoing silence. Yes, they had given him a prison ID using his FBI call sign. Yes, they had done it to irritate him. Yes, it worked.<p>

The intercom for his cell didn't go off often. When it did, it usually brought bad news that another request for a visit had not been approved or last-minute notice about an occasional meeting with his lawyer. The guards didn't bother with the speaker to announce the delivery of meals. Those were just shoved through the tray at the bottom of his door designed for that purpose. No other voices or faces or visits greeted him. Most days and nights he was utterly alone.

Like only the worst of the criminals in the facility, he wasn't allowed outside for fresh air or exercise. He spent 24 hours a day, 7 days a week completely alone in this stark room. He had no visitors, nothing to read, no activity, nothing to help him pass the time in any constructive way. Within a few weeks, he had run through his mental repository of military ranks and maneuvers, FBI regulations, sniper checklists, all the poems he could recite from memory, anything to help the time pass more normally multiple times. He was even beginning to plan a host of ways to use the bed and walls and floor to start a specialized exercise program he could do daily but hadn't physically been up to starting it yet.

As he rolled over and stretched, he tried to keep calm and lower his expectations. He had learned the hard way that the worst thing he could do in here was to get his hopes up. All he had was time on his hands to think and pray and miss the people he loved. And while none of those were bad things in themselves, doing too much of each of those good things could be debilitating. It was almost worse than having no hope and not having anyone around to miss.

From the start, he and his attorney had made the case that he should not be in the general prison population because, once imprisoned, law enforcement officers often faced retribution from those they'd arrested or from their family members or other prisoners paid to exact revenge for those they'd put away. For that reason, it was protocol for FBI agents to be kept in higher security areas of the prison. Hell, even clueless TV crime show writers knew that cops in jail wouldn't last long. But they'd thrown him in with the wolves anyway.

The fact that he had originally been released from the hospital ward into the general prison population had been just one more malfunction in this long, sordid conspiracy. Whoever had put him in here had obviously hoped that he wouldn't survive long enough to be prosecuted. First it had been excuses about maximum security being overcrowded. Then they had made up some excuse that the highly secured areas housed prisoners he had put away recently. Red tape after red tape left him out and exposed on the general ward. They had conceded to give him a private cell, but that had only drawn more attention to him and angered the other prisoners around him. They had gossiped and asked questions until they figured out he was a cop—as if most of them hadn't known that fact from the first moment they'd seen him. As a result, he'd had to be hyper-vigilant every time he had stepped out of his cell. He'd had to watch his own back—nobody had gotten close enough even to offer to talk to him or help him out. He understood, but it was still painful. None of the prisoners would ever trust a cop. Even the dirty cops hated him. He'd always hated dirty cops himself, so he understood why the guards were less than sympathetic. They thought he was guilty and didn't go too far to protect him or cut him any slack. They thought he deserved to be hassled by the other prisoners. It wasn't fair, but nothing had seemed fair to him in a very long time.

He stood slowly in the cold, bare, sterile space and held his arms out in front of him as called for by the rules, wincing a bit from the pain he still felt. As he waited for the click of the door being unlocked, he closed his eyes and regulated his breathing. The last time he'd been out of his cell—back after his long medical recovery when he'd been in a lower-security part of the prison, he'd been attacked by two inmates he'd helped put behind bars. They'd blindsided him in the rec room—getting in more than a few solid blows before he'd fought them off and the guards had shown up to calm the situation. The other prisoners had circled tightly around the fracas, and guards had taken their time coming over to break things up. He'd known that they wouldn't rush to his rescue—that nobody would, and he'd been lucky he'd only had to fight off the two of them. Others could have joined in the ambush and caused him much more harm. Fortunately they hadn't. He had not been allowed to stick around after that to find out if he'd gained any respect or made any additional enemies. They'd moved him immediately to the infirmary and then sent him straight to solitary. He was alive, but the high price of his safety was that he was now more alone than ever.

His three broken ribs and many bruised ones were taking their time to heal. The superficial scrapes and cuts were hardly noticeable anymore—not that he had a mirror to see how they looked. He knew that he was getting better but had not been sent back for a checkup and nobody had come in to look at his bandages. He figured nobody would unless he passed out or something. He wasn't even sure how often they checked the constant video footage of his room. It might be days before they found him.

As the guards fastened the wide cuffs tightly to his wrists and ankles and deliberately connected the chains that confined him whenever he left his new cell, he considered asking them where he was going but decided against it. Cooperative, compliant, agreeable. He was being a soldier about this. For the things he could control (the very few things), he was going to do things by the book. He knew the fight was a black mark on his record. The other prisoners and the guards had lied and said he'd started it. So he had that strike already against him, but he would give them nothing else. He would be a model prisoner even if nobody saw him and appreciated the effort. Whatever would get him out of here the fastest. Hopefully this move to solitary would save his life. It was already nipping around the edges of his sanity.

As the two heavily armed guards escorted him out of the 7x7 concrete room that constituted his entire isolated world these days, he prepared himself mentally to see his boss or FBI investigators or some jerk from the Justice Department. They showed up at random and asked him questions designed to entrap him. They were relentless. He knew what they were doing and he fought hard to keep his composure and admit to nothing, but he wondered how long he could hold himself together. The best of the bureau and their litigation pals were putting words in his mouth, writing their own stories about what had happened, and all but holding his hand and making him sign them. Aside from three brief visits with Caroline Julian's ex-husband, who was acting as his attorney, he hadn't seen anyone familiar or even remotely friendly in months.

First he'd been too injured to have visitors. As he'd healed, they had said it was special circumstances—that his training and experience posed too much of a threat—that he'd be able to send coded messages or perhaps even escape if he'd been granted visitors. Then the fight in the rec room had led them to request that he be completely isolated—he was obviously too much a threat to anyone (even his lawyer) for them to allow any visitation.

Weeks had stretched into months. It had been about three months since he'd been arrested. Eleven and a half weeks… 81 days… 1,953 hours. Military training about how to pass time while being held hostage and too much time spent with the squints had turned him into a master timekeeper—even without a clock within sight. The fact would have amused him if it wasn't one of the precious few things keeping him from unraveling.

Having shuffled slowly down the long hallway and through 3 or 4 gated areas designed to manage the flow of traffic and reduce the chance that anyone would be able to escape, he found himself now standing in the room just outside the one where prisoners were allowed to talk via phone through plate-glass windows to their attorneys or loved ones. As he waited, he paused and pulled himself together. They'd brought him here before and let him stand there for an interminable time hoping he might see his attorney or possibly his wife, only to transfer him to an interview room to interrogate him. He could do this. He had to do this. Failure was not an option. They could not bring anyone to question him who was better than he was. Name, rank, and serial number only. Reminders that he would provide no information unless his attorney was present. Polite requests that he be allowed to see his wife or his bartender or even Sweets or Gordon Gordon Wyatt. He'd done this dozens of times before. So far, he'd only been allowed a few brief visits with his lawyer.

The guard beside him nudged his shoulder hard to make sure he had his full attention, but he refused to wince from the pain. His ego was battered, but pride was one of the shreds of himself that he could still cling to. After listening to the guard's directions about the length of the visit, what he was and was not allowed to do, and the warning that everything said during his visit was being recorded, he nodded slightly.

As time and experience had taught him, he was safest in any open space keeping his head down and his eyes trained about 4 feet ahead of him on the floor. The likelihood of anyone jumping him in this small space limited to fewer than 10 prisoners at a time was slim, but he wasn't taking chances. Listening to the guard at his back and walking beside the other one, he stayed alert to any threats that might materialize. Little did he know that what he'd see on the other side of the glass was more dangerous to him than anyone on his side of the glass who might try do him physical harm.

As they arrived at the place where he'd meet with his attorney, the guard reminded him of the rules. "Here we are. Cubicle 7. 30 minutes. No exceptions. No sudden movements or loud noises. Everything is recorded."

Only after the guards turned to leave, did he look up to make eye contact with his visitor.

As their eyes met, his knees buckled, and he barely recovered enough to slump into the chair to avoid collapsing on the floor. Still not breathing, he reached for the phone hanging on the wall inside the cubicle.

"Booth, I love you so much...," he heard his wife offer urgently, tears filling her eyes and spilling down her cheeks.


	2. Chapter 2 - Words Through the Windowpane

_[A/N: Thanks ever so much for reading here and leaving your insightful reviews. I am grateful that you stopped to read here and found something entertaining or frustrating or otherwise worth mentioning!]_

Chapter 2 – Words through the Windowpane

Her reputation for compartmentalizing was legendary, but it had still had taken every ounce of self-control and determination Temperance had for her to remain calm and remotely logical when she saw him walk into the room. He was thin and, for Booth, "frail" and it was painful to see him chained up and treated in the same manner as the criminals he'd put away for years. Her brain registering minute details instantly, she realized that he'd gone back to the military-short haircut-probably for convenience. It wasn't a time for vanity, but she knew that he'd have hated having longer hair without his treasured hair products to use to smooth it into place. She assumed that he had a shave and a haircut weekly because his hair was fairly short, but he had a long beard and mustache—his look was quite scruffy. But it was Booth. And he was alive. And he was almost close enough to touch. Close enough to make it that much more painful.

She'd watched as he entered the room without searching for her and realized instantly that he must have not known that she'd be there. She hoped that he'd show some sign that he was happy to see her. That he missed her half as much as she missed him. His reaction when he finally looked up at her simply blew her away.

Once their eyes had met, Booth hadn't been able to look away from her, but finally hearing her voice after only recalling it for months had paralyzed him. He'd spent, days, weeks, hours just remembering dozens of subtle, beautiful things about her voice and the many ways it changed to reflect her moods and to impact him. The tone she used now was always so urgent and honest and vulnerable. That one showed up only when she was worried about him or about Christine. Her serious, squinty tone had both impressed him and completely turned him on for years—since they'd first met. The husky, low, alluring voice she used when they were flirting or making out or making love.… That was completely in contrast with her silly, ridiculously awkward sounding laugh that was so uniquely her that he'd had to stop himself from thinking about that too often. That facet of her voice was so completely "her" that it just made him miss her too much to reminisce about it.

His gut clenched with overbearing pain and need. This was why he so often had to stop this train of thought. It was simply overwhelming. He knew without anyone telling him that while he had been locked away and unable to do anything, his wife had been out there trying to solve the conspiracy and fighting like hell to free him. She was putting on a brave front and trying to keep life for Christine as normal as the circumstances would allow, and he knew that she was handling everything alone as well as anyone could. But what broke his heart was the fact that he knew without anyone telling him that she was not laughing these days—not her carefree, completely engrossing, incredibly adorable laughter—not the way she used to do. Not with him locked up in here.

"Booth… Booth are you okay? I know our visit won't be long. Please… please just say something to me."

Yanked back to this surprising reality from the fog of his memories where he spent so much of his time lately, he focused intently on her beautiful, worry-filled face. He wasn't sure how long he'd been lost in revisiting his prized recollections of her beautiful voice. Those recollections were one of the mechanisms he used to pass the time and keep him from falling apart. He'd treated to them now as a child grasps for a favorite worn toy or blanket—as protection from emotion too strong to withstand, too overpowering to handle. He hoped that he hadn't wasted too much of this visit, but he had no assurance that he hadn't "zoned out" about Bones for far too long.

As he honed in on her blissfully near presence now, he could see that she was leaning forward and holding her hand up on the glass. It was killing her that she couldn't touch, couldn't hug him. It was killing both of them.

"Temperance," he whispered, his voice overcome with emotion he had no idea how he'd reel in.

"Booth," she whispered back, a bit more relieved but obviously aching for the wounded man she saw before her.

He reached up and put his hand upon the glass across from hers. Both of them closed their eyes and imagined the way it would feel to touch hands… just for moment. He kept his eyes closed against the pain. It was just too much. But his ache to see her triumphed over his need to stop this emotional bombardment. As he opened his eyes and trained them automatically on his true love, his brain had registered a glimpse of the faint reflection of his unshaven face in the window. On instinct, he was struck by how long it had been since he'd seen his own face and by how different he looked from his "normal" self, but knowing that their time was limited, he willed himself to focus only on her. Not that he had ever really had any trouble doing that—she was now (and had been since he had met her) the center of his universe.

"Booth, you're still injured despite the fact that you've had enough time to heal from your wounds. Are they… are the guards harming you?"

"No," he said quietly, shaking his head to remind her that their conversation was being recorded. "The guards are fine. They're not… they're just doing their jobs."

"But your ribs… I can see from the way that you strained to raise your hand that at least three ribs on your left side are fractured, others bruised."

He almost smiled. She couldn't help reading bones… even now. "Two guys jumped me before they put me in solitary. I'm fine. I'm healing."

"You're sure."

"I'm fine."

She took a deep breath and paused slightly before trying to tell him enough for him to know that she hadn't given up on him.

"You're in solitary confinement?" she asked. She was both comforted by the fact that his safety would be enhanced and horrified that he was more alone in this harsh place than even she had imagined. "Don't give up, Booth. We'll find a way. We'll figure this out."

The chains on his arms made it impractical for him to keep his hand up on the glass any longer. He leaned forward on the table built into the cubicle, putting his weight on his elbows and as he spoke intently to her, his eyes conveying things he could not voice in words, "I have a lawyer. He's working on things. You need to focus on your work and keep your job so that you can pay the family bills." _Please don't do anything to give them a reason to be any more suspicious of you. _

He tipped his head slightly toward the phone, reminding her that their conversation was not private—knowing that someone would be listening to them right now—not waiting for a recording to be sent over. He knew that his lawyer and Bones and the squints didn't have enough to free him yet, so he figured he could wait to talk to his attorney to learn the latest. He had to keep her safe—keep her from bringing up anything that would increase their suspicion. It was all he could do now to help her.

Understanding the need for caution, she changed to safer topics, "I'm so sorry it took me so long to arrange for this visit. I have tried so hard, called every day," she confessed, her disappointment in herself apparent.

"Hey, you're always worth the wait," he consoled, his comment so eerily reminiscent of the way he'd always flirted with her that both of them blinked back tears.

Steeling herself, she continued, "They won't commit to another visit, but I'm filing a lawsuit against the Justice Department to compel them to allow you more frequent visits." She glanced at the phone as if to let him know she was putting them on notice through this conversation of her planned appeal.

"Your mom wants to come, your grandfather would like to visit, and I'd like to bring Christine."

"No!" he practically erupted, drawing the attention of the guards on both side of the glass. He apologized and assured the guard that he would not lose his temper again. They let him know there were no second chances.

But when he turned back to her, he spoke earnestly, "I don't want anyone else seeing me like this… especially not Christine."

"She's young, Booth. She would be so happy to see you that she wouldn't even notice your surroundings." She actually suspected that Christine was too bright not to register the experience as worrisome but would risk it for both their sakes. But her lover refused.

"Absolutely not."

Blinking back tears, she nodded, understanding that he could not bear to have their daughter in a place like this. She looked at him and nodded again, telling him in ways that only the two of them understood that she would comply with his wishes because she understood his reasons.

They sat, staring at one another wordlessly, and the dark, cold world around them fell away-as it so often did whenever they made eye contact. As her eyes met his beautiful brown ones, their gazes locked and held, opening the pathway for that silent communication that allowed each of them to express more feeling than he or she could verbally convey in such a brief, emotionally overcharged situation.

She told him how much she missed him…

… how devoted she was to him.

… how much she needed for him not to give up hope.

He told her that he loved her…

… that she was the one thing that helped him hold himself together.

… that he needed for her to be careful out there not to do anything to put herself in danger.

"Ten minutes," the guard announced that time for the long overdue visit was winding down far too quickly. That harsh reminder pulled them out of their conversation-filled silence. She knew that they were shortchanging them on time, but it wasn't worth sacrificing one spare, precious moment to register a complaint.

For a long moment as they realized how temporary their time together would be, neither of them was able to breathe. It was too little time. It wasn't even a fraction of what they both wanted. He cursed himself for being slow and unfocused, natural side effects of his incarceration that limited this much-needed visit with her. Amid his own angst, he watched her stiffen and attempt to become more calm and rational and less emotional—her natural instinct in such situations. At the same time, he watched her newer more open side struggle not to be shut down and watched in awe as her emotional side won the battle handily. As that realization dawned on her and she openly embraced the pain now engulfing her, he felt the clock's hands pulling ever more tightly on a rope tied too tightly around his already breaking heart.

His strong, beautiful, amazing wife found the courage to speak first. "Christine is drawing more advanced pictures, and she writing her full name now. I have reconciled myself to the fact that it is normal—perhaps even an indicator of advanced intelligence-for her to still be writing her R's backward."

She glanced away and when she looked back into his love-filled brown eyes, she saw the pain he was trying so valiantly to hide from her and from everyone else. "Booth..."

"Tell her," he began earnestly, his voice cracking as he tried to manage his emotions, "Tell her that I miss her and that I love her and that I think about her every… every day." He choked off, hating the fact that Christine couldn't understand why he wasn't there. She probably thought he'd walked out on her. He'd promised that he wouldn't ever leave her the way that his mom had left Jared and him. And that's what had happened. The agony of that realization gripped him and nearly crushed him.

She pulled him out of that pit… knowing that he couldn't do so himself. "I will. I have. She knows, Booth. She asks for you to read her bedtime stories. She makes airplane and animal noises like you do when you give her a bath. She… she remembers you. She misses you so much. We both do." She saw his pain, his grief, and the fear he was far too brave to voice. She loved him more than she had ever imagined possible. Overcome by the enormity of what they were facing and the utter divide that kept them from dealing with the situation together as partners, Temperance clamped her hand over her mouth to hold back the sobs that threatened. He dropped his head for a moment and used the back of his wrist to swipe at tears he would not let fall.

When he looked back up at her, she nodded, letting him know that it was okay not to say what he was feeling. He was the heart person. And it was obvious that his heart had been battered more than his body had been wounded. He'd lost his freedom, his family, and the job he loved so much. She couldn't imagine how hard this was for him, how alone he must feel bearing this all without anyone to talk to.

Their eyes connected again-in that way that, over the years, they had honed. They had always been able to have entire conversations without speaking a word, some of them long and monotonous, some of them forbidden and one-sided, and others ridiculously steamy and electric and full of love and lust long-denied—especially back when they'd both fought against the gravitational pull that was binding them irrevocably together. Their friends still teased them about those long moments when they carried on wordless conversations that they never shared with anyone else. Time spent together in a public relationship had not lessened that unique way they communicated. In fact, it had sharpened their skills.

As they had hundreds of time before, they sat staring intently into one another's eyes through the security window, telling one another so much more than anyone listening to the recording would ever hear. In that same way that, even long ago, he had been able to tell her so much more than "there's more than one kind of family" and "what's between us, it's ours," and the way that she'd held his hand quietly in the cemetery and just been there for him and the way that she'd sat silently on the barstool and help him drink away his pain over losing Hannah, his heart told her brain what he needed her to know he was feeling, and her brain willed his to understand how loyal she was and that she would never rest until he was free and back with his family again.

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Just take care of yourself… and Christine."

_I love you._

_I need you._

_I miss you._

_God, I miss you, too. Are you really okay?_

_I'm fine._

_You're not fine. It's okay to ask for help. Talk to Angela… to Sweets… to you dad… don't bottle everything up._

_I will be fine as long as you are. Don't give up. We are always with you. You are not alone._

_Don't do anything dangerous. It's not worth Christine losing you to a place like this._

_I won't do anything risky, but I can't just sit around and hope. Stay safe. _

_I'll be fine in here as long as I know that you and Christine are okay._

_We won't be okay until you're out and back with us, but I know what you meant… I understood your point._

The buzzer signaling the end of the visit sounded loudly, causing both of them to flinch and regret that their time together was ending. Booth had been the last person brought in—they'd cheated them out of the full time allowed for the visit.

"I will fight to get back in here to see you soon. Don't give up even if it takes substantial time for me to make the arrangements."

"Thanks so much for coming. You… you look so beautiful. Even prettier than in my memories."

Tears falling, she shook her head, appreciating the sentiment but knowing that his statement was emotional and not entirely accurate in this pain-filled moment.

"This won't be forever. This is temporary. We will be back together. Know that I won't rest until you are free to come home to us," she promised.

He nodded, attempting to express optimism but coming up short.

She looked at him desperately, hating to ask anything else of the man who was already bearing too much.

"Could you… would you… please say it... just once?" she squawked emotionally, hating the fact that she was so vulnerable and needy but unable to deny it.

As ever, he found strength he didn't know he had when he needed to help or protect her. His face telling her to believe the words he was saying, he leaned closer and spoke lovingly into the receiver, "I love you so much, baby. You never have to ask me to say that. Just know it. I love you with all my heart… always."

She smiled through her tears and then chuckled, leaving him wondering what she found so amusing. "I love you, too, Booth. More than ever. But that's not what I was asking you to say."

Confused, he looked at her, trying to figure out what her brilliant mind was asking him to catch up and understand.

Suddenly, it hit him that he'd only called her by her given name, and he managed to choke out on a shaky whisper, "Bones… I love you, Bones… I'll love you forever."

The sound of him calling her by that silly, but "between them" nickname soothed her soul but nearly caused her to lose control of her emotions. "Me, too," she whispered through her now falling tears.

She watched as the guards came back to escort him out of the room. Sadly, he hung up the receiver and turned to follow them. Only when they reached the door to the hallway did he turn back to face her, a calm, encouraging expression clearly painted on his face for her benefit as he disappeared from sight.

Nearly unable to stay upright, she turned and walked on unsteady legs to the exit for the visitation area.


	3. Chapter 3 - Nightmares

_[A/N: Your comments are amazing, and I am grateful for their honesty, detail, and encouragement. Thank you very much!_

_I know this is painful reading. It's not over yet, but I promise not to leave you down in this pit too much longer. We're about halfway finished here-if you wanted a roadmap for how long you'll have to endure this "nightmare" yourself. Thank you so much for reading and commenting here. Hope the misery is moving or worth it in some other way. It's not meant to torture you-PROMISE!]_

Chapter 3 – Nightmares

Prisoner 22705 had been having nightmares since his first night in the hospital after he was arrested. They'd hit him off and on during the rest of his incarceration with an alarming and exhausting frequency. Once he was moved from the infirmary to his original private cell, his frantic late-night yelling had annoyed those in cells near him, and he'd been manhandled by more than one guard in an attempt to shut him up. At least now in solitary, he wasn't waking the people around him. Hell, he wondered if anyone else even heard.

The uncomfortable cot in his cell that wreaked havoc on his back was too sparse to be government-issue—it reminded him of rough pallets or bare, hard ground he'd slept on when he'd been imprisoned during his military days. Days and nights that had been spent immersed in torture and hopelessness. This situation wasn't as physically painful as those days had been, but the emotional toll was at least as damaging. Isolated days were their own special brand of hell, but the worst of his post-traumatic stress disorder tortured him too many times when he drifted off.

Nowadays, he'd wake from the constant, terrifying nightmare—an eerie blend of older, horrible wartime events with his recent fight with the Delta Force fighters, each time waking when he saw one of them shoot his wife—he'd been too late. Sweating profusely and his heart racing, it always took hours for him to calm down and remind himself that she was fine, that they'd both survived.

Back home, when these nightmares had continued on a much less frequent pace, Bones had gotten in the habit of holding him tightly when he woke up and then running a hot bath—no matter the lateness of the hour. Knowing that he wouldn't want to discuss the worst of the tricks his mind had played on him, she'd soothe him and hug him and then lead him to the tub. Supportive but not patronizing, she'd ease him into the sud-laden water so that he could ease his tension and soothe his tense muscles with the warmth of the water. As with everything else, they were partners in needing help recovering from these episodes. She had nightmares of her own, so this wasn't one-sided. When she woke screaming and shaking and thrown back into that desolate world of her childhood and abandonment, he always offered her the same solid, unspoken, support.

More times than not, she'd give him time to unwind and relax before slipping into the tub with him, leaning back against his strong chest and allowing him to hold her tightly for as long as he needed to calm down and deal with the aftermath of the dream. Most times, he didn't tell her the specifics… just a general statement about what he'd been dreaming about. More times than most, once the tension lifted, he was spurred by the feel of her beautiful body so intimately aligned with his to move from holding her tightly and whispering words of love and of thanks into her ears to touching her in ways that initiated tender love-making.

Alone on the horrid cot in the windowless cell trying to shake off the ravages of his latest dream-hell, he closed his eyes and groaned, his body remembering all too well the soothing warmth of the water and the glorious touch of his partner as she comforted him the way that only she could. He had never considered himself too imaginative, but it was so very easy even all these months later for him to conjure up the sounds she'd make, the way she would touch him and encourage him to touch her, the intimacy of love shared and pain shared and support provided unconditionally. In his mind's eye, he'd watch as she responded to his body, his touch, his offering of himself to her by opening up and allowing their love to overcome her. He'd always known that she'd be a fiery lover and often predisposed to being aggressive when they made love. He had not been disappointed. As with so many things, he'd had a challenge keeping up with her. And as he so often did, he found ways to avoid being outsmarted, overmatched, or out-maneuvered. His desire for her helped him find energy he thought he'd lost in his youth, and his need for her helped him keep pace. But what affected him more than her body, her stamina, and her determination, was her vulnerability. As he should have expected, she'd caught on early and realized what he'd always meant when he'd talked about the beauty of making love. She was always strong, self-confident, independent-herself, but in those intimate times when they made love, she opened up and shared more than he'd ever hoped. On rare occasions, she even wept or clung tightly to him after they made love, overwhelmed by the realization that she'd told him and shown him the depths of her metaphorical heart. It floored him every time.

It was only after he thought long and hard about the way she eased his mind and his body after his nightmares at home that Booth was able to regulate his breathing and relax at all. She was still saving him from himself—even without being there.

God, he missed her. He missed the way that she focused so intently on her work that he'd have to remind her to stop and eat. He even missed the crazy tribal music that she'd make him listen to and the wines she'd pour for him that were from countries he never knew existed. He missed the boring documentaries she insisted that he watch with her, and he missed the way she never noticed that he spent most of that time watching and admiring her instead of paying attention to the highly acclaimed films. He missed having to beg her to tell him what she was writing in her books. He missed just driving around town to work cases—holding her hand and stealing kisses even when she chastised him for taking his eyes off the road. He missed how stubborn she was. He missed her nagging him about wearing his seatbelt and about avoiding undue strain on his back even when making love to her was the source of that strain. He missed watching her play with and teach his daughter. He missed every damn little detail about her—especially the things that had always driven him crazy.

He lie there imagining that they were cuddled up in bed, sweaty and sated after making love. He imagined the smile she couldn't quite hide that always told him she was physically satisfied with their lovemaking. He went on to think about how they'd either rev each other up again or start discussing something that would lead to an intense conversation or even the bickering that had long been their own special aphrodisiac. No matter who won the argument—and it was hardly ever him-he'd wrap his arms around her and roll her over and show her all over again how much he loved her. And she'd look into his eyes and give herself over to him completely. And he'd be staggered by her tenderness and devotion.

God, why had they waited so long to get past their pasts and their hang-ups and their fears? He had been undeniably in love with her for years, but it had taken exactly one time, one night with her for him to know that all the time for waiting was past. All excuses and logic and fear and potential consequences and risks were forgotten the night they'd first made love. He'd known they were meant for each other years before. But that night, he'd reconciled himself to being "all in"—no matter what. It wasn't a gamble. It wasn't taking a chance. It was commitment to forever. Instead of being overwhelming or frightening or even cause for a deep breath, it had been the best day of his life. He had never and would never look back. This was his chosen, adored path, and being with her was what he was supposed to do. Booth normally didn't dwell on the long, winding path they'd taken to find a whole new level of partnership, but at times like this when his happy times with her seemed too tragically short and far too distant, he hated the coward that he'd been all those years before.

* * *

><p>Temperance woke up screaming. Her father came rushing into the room of the apartment they now shared, gun cocked and ready for firing.<p>

"I'm fine. I'm sorry. It was just a nightmare," she admitted.

He took in her wide eyes and pained expression and cursed the FBI once more. When they'd first moved into the apartment, she'd been quick to assure him that she was fine and rush him out of her room. The longer Booth had been locked up, the more often she had nightmares and the more frequently she'd let her father hold her afterwards. This was one of those times. His expression sympathetic, he crossed the room quickly, placed the weapon on the nightstand, and pulled her into his arms.

Max hated the fact that he hadn't been around to do this for her during all those years he'd been on the run. He knew that she had been through so much and that she was tough enough to survive anything. But he hated watching her worry so much about her husband. _Damned FBI_.

He held her as long as she let him and then reassured her that he'd take care of Christine so that she could get some more sleep. As if on cue, a sleepy little girl appeared in the doorway, still rubbing sleep from her eyes.

Max watched as his strong daughter composed herself completely and motioned for her daughter to join them. The little girl raced toward them, giggling as he lifted her into her mother's waiting arms.

"I love you, Christine," she whispered to her daughter. "Max and Daddy love you, too. So much."

His granddaughter was a genius. Max had decided that long ago. He watched as Christine snuggled even closer to her mother. "Until Daddy comes back, I give you extra hugs, and you give me extra hugs, right Mommy?"

Max watched as his daughter held her child tightly even as she fought to hold back her tears. "Yes, sweetheart, we give extra hugs for Daddy."

Pulling back with her expression inquisitive as her mother's ever had been, Christine puzzled, "But who gives Daddy extra hugs for us?"

A lone tear slipped down Temperance's cheek. "Well," she said, her voice full of emotion, "Daddy told you that family hugs are like magic, right?" She shot Max a glance to warn him that this was an appropriate time to lie to her daughter—to keep Booth's words to their child intact and familiar.

Her daughter nodded.

"So when I hug you or when you hug me, Daddy feels it where he is. And he hugs us right back."

"I miss him so much," Christine said, her lip trembling.

"He misses you, too. I saw him yesterday, and he told me to tell you that he can't come home yet but he misses you and loves you and that he thinks about you every single day."

Max nodded at his daughter to let her know she was handling the situation well.

"Is he coming home soon?"

"I hope so, sweetie."

"I'm gonna draw him a picture. So you can take it to him next time you see him. So he'll have more than magic hugs from me. So he'll know I love him."

"That's a wonderful idea."

"Breakfast, then artwork. Sounds like a plan, kiddo. Let's let Mommy get some more rest, okay?" Max said as he ushered the little girl out of the room.

"Thanks, Dad," Temperance whispered as they left the room. She rolled over and cried into her pillow—an indulgence she rarely allowed herself. Seeing Booth had almost been harder than not seeing him for so long. It had been a live, daytime nightmare almost as frightening as the ones that plagued her nights.

God, she missed him. She missed coming home to their Mighty Hut to find an enormous mess of things he and Christine had strewn around the family room while putting on a play about cowboys and Native American tribes or about princesses and creatures simulated from colored, interlocking blocks or some other such nonsense. She missed him showing up at the lab, announcing that he was going to kiss his genius wife, laughing at her outrage at his antics, and closing her office door just in time to keep everyone from watching them start to make out like teenagers. She missed being in the field with him—even being in dangerous situations. She missed his screaming at the television during sporting events and the way he ate huge portions of unhealthy food at all hours of the day and night—even, as all but ice cream was forbidden-in their bed.

She sighed. It was almost a cliché, she knew, to miss his physical presence. She'd admired the beauty of his physical form for years before she would have admitted how much she was drawn to it. Being allowed, having permission and approval to touch and caress and entice it had cemented her need and her craving to touch him—made it permanent. Now when her emotional need for him was so strong, it seemed almost crass to miss their lovemaking—somehow reducing it to only a physical experience. Of course, she could not deny that she ached for the feel of his hands roaming her body, his mouth devouring hers, his overpowering physical presence, and his utter devotion to giving her intense pleasure and showing her how much he loved her.

Biological urges. All those times they'd argued about that topic. Yes, she felt a biological imperative to be near him and to make love to him—she always had, but the emotional and loving bond they now shared far eclipsed their physical compatibility. Booth had been right. Making love meant so much more than just satisfying biological urges. Through the many times they'd tried to break the laws of physics, their hearts and souls had been metaphorically bonded so much closer together. She'd learned that there were varying reasons for the many instances in which her partner—her lover—her lifelong mate—would initiate physical contact intended to result in their making love. Often he would kiss her soundly and playfully to arouse her to celebrate the end of a case (a huge improvement over their original plan of having a drink to wrap up cases) or to relish some other accomplishment of her, his, or Christine's. They'd be raucous and light and laugh their way through the way their bodies merged. Other times, he would virtually attack her when they'd been apart or in danger—those urgent pairings were primal and raw and intended to comfort them both by reminding them how intensely they were bonded and how important staying that way was. On other occasions, he would reach out to her for comfort after nightmares or other events that brought him sadness, and he was just as likely—even more so—to reach out to hold her tenderly when those sorts of sadness were plaguing her. As boldly as she'd always asserted that sex was just about biological imperatives, she'd been wrong. Her favorite times of being romanced and ravished by her lover were the times when he surprised her with a tenderness and adoration most people wouldn't imagine he'd be capable of providing. For such a big, strong, confident man to be moved nearly to the verge of tears just from touching her and showing her in little physical ways how tender and true his feelings for her were was life-altering. Since they'd become romantically involved, Booth had taken steps to build upon the loyalty, support and devotion he'd always lavished upon her. Now that they were truly a couple, he frequently let down his guard with her, allowed her to see how much he needed and treasured her, enabled his body to tell hers tender secrets he'd be embarrassed to reveal to anyone but her.

Through their physical and even deeper emotional connection, they'd become one. One unit, one couple, one set of parents, one partnership, one pair of best and dearest friends. They were still intrinsically different, but they had each evolved to be the perfect complement to one another. Booth had been right about so very many things she'd never confessed to him. She hoped that he knew how much he'd opened her brilliant mind to so many more feelings and ideas than she'd ever been able to understand through study and examination of events. He'd shown her how much more deeply she could feel. And if she didn't love him so damned much, she'd hate him right now for the pain these realizations caused her.

* * *

><p>Hours of intense silence were harshly interrupted by the crackle of the intercom in his room. It was too soon for another visit. He figured it was the FBI back to harass him to decode the conversation he'd had with his wife the day before.<p>

"Prisoner 22705, this is the weekly library call. Would you like a book to read? You can check two out per week."

Weekly call? He hadn't ever gotten a call before. He'd been reading the Bible provided in each cell since he'd arrived but that had been his only distraction. Maybe Bones was pulling strings to get him treated more like a normal prisoner after all.

He'd stopped to wonder about the unexpected visit, but his response to the question had been automatic, "Bred in the Bone… and anything else you have from Temperance Brennan." He was pretty sure the books wouldn't arrive in those jackets that had her picture on them, but he had long ago memorized them and knew that just reading her books again would make him feel closer to her.

* * *

><p>"David Barron, please," she spoke urgently to the receptionist, "Yes, it's Dr. Temperance Brennan calling for him again."<p>

She waited impatiently for Booth's attorney to pick up the call. Buoyed by thoughts of how much Booth needed her to carry on and work to free him since she'd dragged herself out of bed this morning and started her day, she'd been full of energy and ambition.

"Yes. Hello, David. Thank you for arranging for me to see him. I want to schedule another visit soon. I stopped by the warden's office and provided him with our latest complaint to the Justice Department. He assured me that, FBI and Justice Department approval pending, that Booth would be allowed outside for brief periods and that he could have more frequent visits and perhaps eventual mail or access to prison email. I think that he believed me when I threatened to go to the press about my husband's abysmal treatment at his facility. I trust that he will relay my concerns to those who have treated Booth in the same manner as a convicted murder on death row even before he has been tried." There were, she decided, advantages to knowing that all of her phone calls were likely recorded by the bureau. They might ignore direct requests, but someone would listen if she spoke the words via phone or during her visits with Booth.

They agreed on two potential dates, but not the location or precise time, of their next meeting. Through a series of messages whispered from her to Sweets to Caroline to David and back, they would arrange the location and time for the next discussion of Booth's case. They knew they'd be followed, but planning that way kept the FBI unable to plan ahead and allowed them time to set up equipment to jam any signals and effectively block the FBI from listening in on their conversations.

That phone call made, she turned to her work as she always had in times of stress. It was only through her work that she found even a temporary release from the ache of missing her husband so much. Admitting how poor a substitute engrossing herself in her work now was for missing Booth was just one more adjustment she had to make. Painful as those realizations sometimes were—especially when they involved her departing from previous staunchly held beliefs and sentiments, she now accepted them with grace and contentment she could not have fathomed before they became partners. No sacrifice was too great to make for Booth. No amount of change to be dealt with and accommodated was too great a burden. She had long since relinquished control of her ultimate happiness to their relationship, and she was strong enough now to bear anything necessary to remain devoted to and hopelessly in love with him.


	4. Chapter 4 - Raw Despondence

_**[A/N: I cannot wait until the season premiere! In the meantime, I've been working on wrapping this story up. Believe it or not, this was actually a rather happy chapter until I re-read it and miseried it up. Yes. That's a word. My word. You're such troopers for reading here! Thanks so much for the reviews and comments. They make me the opposite of miserable! ~MiseryMaker]**_

Chapter 4 – Raw Despondence

Temperance's brain had always been hardwired to draw connections between random bits of knowledge. That capability had always been a skill she had been proud of. Her ability to discern patterns amid seemingly disparate facts had led her and her partner to solve many cases and provided her with a consistent topic about which to boast to her partner.

However, as the long, worrisome weeks of her husband's incarceration dragged on, that skill had become a curse. She had found herself bombarded with unwelcome memories of times past. And as if dealing with the current stresses of having her husband in jail, her home in ruins, her family displaced and scattered weren't enough, and her partnership and her consulting work with the FBI suddenly terminated, she was also overwhelmed by unwelcomed connections her brain made to painful memories of other times when she'd felt this upset. She felt far too alone, helpless, fragile, weak, and heart-crushed nearly all of the time, and her brain kept piling her old emotional baggage on top of her current problems.

At unexpected moments, the remnants of specific previous periods of acute emotional distress would come rushing back to her, making bearing the current situation even more difficult. In those dark times when she felt exhausted and hopeless, she would be bombarded with unwelcome flashbacks to how bleak things had been in times past. When she felt as if she would not see her husband free again, she was struck with fresh recollections of the fears and turmoil she faced when she thought that Booth had died after Pam Nunan shot him. Problems she suffered at that time resurfaced—regrets of not voicing her feelings, an inability to process thoughts of a world without him, and an utter helplessness that had rendered her anything but calm and rational and able to handle what was happening adeptly. Those feelings haunted her now despite her intent to banish them as part of her past she did not want to revisit.

At other times when she ached for his touch, his voice, and his presence, she was reminded of how she'd longed for him from afar from Maluku and then even more when Hannah had moved to D.C. and she'd thought she'd lost him. Then, as now, she was able to perform her duties and focus on her work and responsibilities, but she did so with a heavy, burdened down heart. The loneliness was made that much worse since it felt so eerily familiar. And telling herself that this was circumstantial and that Booth would never willingly be apart from her didn't help enough. There was nothing that could help her enough to make this separation bearable.

What she hated most was the vulnerability she was unable to deny when she was apart from her partner, her lover, her very best friend. The situation forced her to realize that she had done the very thing she had always argued was irrational. She'd allowed another person to become so important to her that she could not be truly happy without him. Though she'd faced that commitment willingly and embraced it once they'd established an overtly romantic relationship, being reminded so clearly about how much she depended on Booth was painful. Knowing how much he meant to her was easy and a source of great comfort when he was with her. It had become heart-crushing now that he was literally locked up and kept away from her with no indication of when or if he might return.

What occurred to her with each of the misery-filled connections she made to past, painful events was that Booth had always been there for her to help her survive them. Even when it had taken him a while to do so in certain cases, he'd been the one to help her face her demons, overcome her fears, and trust in her feelings. Without him, she was sorely tempted to revert to old habits she'd planned to banish-to try to suppress her painful feelings and isolate herself from people and from incidents that might threaten the fragile hold she had on her raging emotions.

* * *

><p>Booth had never been one for pity parties, but he came close some days. Now that he looked back on those times when he'd been in the military and been held captive and tortured, he realized that even though it had seemed like it at the time, those had not actually been low points. He'd be lying if he didn't admit that those had indeed been dark days, but his mood was more bleak and his optimism a heavier burden, so he was more despondent now. Back then, young and with few attachments, he'd been in so much pain that he'd actually wished they'd kill him. Now it was the emotional pain—not the physical discomfort that was the hardest to bear. At this point in his life, he was simply not capable of wishing for death—not anymore. Not since Bones and Christine had joined Parker as the most important, most treasured, most central people in his life. He coveted time and memories with them all and would not willingly forego any chance he might have at more family time with them. Even when missing them hurt like hell. Even when he feared he'd end up spending the rest of his life in this cold, hauntingly quiet place.<p>

God was obviously using this time in prison to help him improve his prayer life. With nothing else to do during his waking hours, he spent long stretches praying with God and seeking his counsel. That was a positive thing. It was the only positive thing. He knew it was a good thing, but he hoped that God would understand that he wanted more than just an expanded prayer life.

He had little information about his own case, so pondering those details didn't take much time. He had no updates on sports or current events, so he couldn't make up a half-decent mental fantasy league to run. He spent hours missing his loved ones, but he had to stop that after a certain point in order to preserve what was left of his sanity.

Until he got crazy enough to start having actual conversations with himself, he was left with few avenues of thought to help him pass the time. He started out an exercise regimen slowly-pushups and sit-ups and lunges and some short-term jogging in place to revive the muscles he'd been too injured to work out the last few months. The exercise helped improve his health and temporarily lifted his mood, but no amount of exercise would keep him from being submersed in dark, lonely days.

One of the few things he dwelt upon for significant periods of time was what he might actually do for a job if… no when… he got out of this hellhole. Instead of dwelling on the fact that his job and his partnership with Bones were over—facts that, on their own, were enough to cripple him, he thought about what else he might do. For years, he'd had other job offers, and he had plenty of friends who retired and took second jobs or who were drawn to the big bucks out in the private sector. All that time, he'd been a dedicated G-man, unwilling to even consider anything else as a profession. Until now. His loyalty had gotten him nowhere, so he was suddenly free to actively consider other options.

Unless he was barred from trying to do anything law enforcement-related, he could be a security consultant for some big company. It would be a desk job, but it would bring in big money. If things turned out well, he could apply for a civilian job at the Pentagon or with some other law enforcement-related group. Maybe he could manage security at the Jeffersonian or another government entity. He could be a trainer or shooting instructor.

On the other hand, he could be a stay-a-home dad or coach kids' sports teams. He knew Bones made enough money that neither of them had to work if she kept writing the occasional book, but he knew he'd get bored if he didn't have a mission, a purpose, something constructive to do with his time. On the days when he missed Christine most, he imagined that staying home with her would actually be his first choice. Other days, he thought about becoming a mechanic. He had even considered going back to school to study something as far away from law enforcement as possible, but hadn't landed on any specific ideas for things to study.

Sigh… Special Agent had suited him. He had lived that job for years before meeting Bones, for years working with her, and even after he had found new things to keep him from being focused on finding bad guys 24 hours/7 days a week. He had grown up and gained experience, but the job had suited the cocky young gambler, the newly reformed and refocused liaison with the Jeffersonian, and the senior agent who had been offered chances to step back and take it easy but who had not reached that point yet. Suitable and comfortable and enjoyable or not, it looked as if that long chapter in his career was over. The hole blown in his professional life was as devastating as the damage done to his home.

Booth got so frustrated whenever he thought long about the fact that the bad guys who were behind this conspiracy were robbing him of the job he loved so much and which, to anyone but Bones, he'd readily admit that he'd been damned good at. They'd stolen his freedom and his job. They'd separated him from his family—making him miss so much precious time with Christine and with Pops, who was finally slowing down in his old age. They were keeping him apart from his partner, his best friend, his soul mate. And they were still out there doing evil while he was left with nothing else to do except figure out how to reinvent himself.

* * *

><p>She packed the box carefully, chastising herself for taking so much time and care to handle everything carefully as she realized that its contents would be unceremoniously dumped out, x-rayed, poked and prodded, and who knew what else. She fully expected half of what she was sending not to make it to her husband, yet she felt that packing it carefully might somehow lead to most of the items finding their way to him. She fought against strong memories of taking gifts and packages to her father when he was imprisoned and learning that little of what she offered was actually delivered to him. She sighed, bemoaning the curse of a near perfect memory.<p>

After looking in the box once again, she smiled at the adorable picture Christine had painted of their family. The edges were a bit rumpled but that had been intentional. She had asked her daughter to hug it tightly and hoped that the paper would retain a hint of the scent of the natural children's products they used to bathe their daughter. Atop that larger piece of paper, she'd placed a current photo of Christine. She'd been smiling as she'd sat on the tire swing out back, and the photo captured her smile and the brilliance of her eyes perfectly. Temperance had also stopped by the parish to pick up a few small devotional books. She was not certain they were appropriate, but Father O'Neill had assured her that they would bring comfort to Booth. He'd also promised to attempt another visit to Booth in the prison to counsel and pray with him personally.

Many of their family albums and photos had been damaged, but she'd gotten Angela to make a copy of one of their favorite wedding photos. She'd also written him a letter reminding him how much she loved him and confessing to him how much she missed him. She sniffled anew remembering how she'd broken down when she'd put on paper words meant to convey to him the pain of their separation. She hoped it brought him more comfort than pain. She had sprayed the envelope with her favorite perfume, hoping to help Booth ignite as many different types of sensory memory as possible.

Back at task and trying to stay focused, she added cards from his friends, from Hank and from Parker, and even one from Rebecca. She added a poker chip like the one he typically kept in his pocket. She added three pairs of striped socks. Last, but not least, she added a vacuum sealed box containing a pie from the diner. She'd had them cut it carefully into small pieces in hopes that they'd have less trouble examining it for files and knives and other weapons. Then she'd taken it to the FBI and had them package it and certify that its contents were safe for delivery to prisoners. She hoped it wouldn't be discarded or eaten by the guards, but there was really no way to tell.

As she sealed the box for delivery to the prison, her mind wandered back, unbidden, to one of the last times she'd seen Booth eat pie—one of their many lunches at the diner.

_Booth had grinned broadly before picking up his plate and lifting his double-slice of pie up for a sniff. He'd inhaled sensuously and sighed loudly, the sounds eerily reminiscent of some of their intimate moments together. He'd been cutting back on junk food and watching his sugar intake—at her bidding—and this long awaited pie brought him an inordinate amount of joy. She remembered the way his lips looked alluring as he'd opened them to slip the fork carrying the first bite inside his mouth. He'd moaned and sat still for a long moment before finally opening his eyes to look at her. "Bones, you're still my favorite person to kiss, but this, this pie, it's a damned close second."_

_She'd laughed at his remark and marveled at the way he'd literally inhaled the rest of the rich dessert. He took no extra time to savor the flavors. He just dove in and immersed himself in the experience. Then, as if to relive the delight all over again, he reminisced mightily about it afterward. She instantly realized the parallel—Booth lived his life that way. He embraced life with both arms and took whatever came his way. He was wildly sentimental, but that was usually after something had happened—it was as if he was so engrossed in each moment that he couldn't absorb everything during the experience. Even so, he constantly surprised her by having an incredible memory afterward—far more honed and strong than her own—for relishing minute details of things he'd experienced with childlike wonder. As with many things, she longed to be more like him in that regard._

_Unexpectedly aroused by watching him disassemble the pie and enjoy it so much, she'd risen to move around the table, shocking him by sitting in his lap in the very public place and wrapping her arms around his neck. After kissing him soundly and finding the taste of pie less distracting than usual, she'd whispered to him of her newly inspired plans for him when they were alone that evening. She had watched as surprise and then lust flashed in his warm, intoxicating eyes. He'd reached for his wallet and left twice the amount they owed for their bill. Then he'd practically shoved her aside as he reached and grabbed his coat. She'd protested when he'd yanked hard on her hand and pulled her toward the doorway. Surprising her, he'd pulled hard, yanking her firmly against his chest. He looked at her a long moment, not even noticing the scene they were causing in the busy restaurant and then he'd leaned close and smiled wickedly at her as he whispered. "I can't be bothered to count money right now, Bones. Not when we have to rush home for something so important." His evil wink betrayed his intention._

_They'd barely made it into the house. _

_They'd both taken a ribbing at work later that day for taking such a long lunch break and coming back to the office in different clothing. In fact, long after they'd gathered Christine up from daycare, they were still laughing and discussing the teasing they'd suffered in secret code designed to hide the true meaning of their conversation from their daughter. After parking the SUV, Booth rushed around to open the doors for both of the ladies in his life. Christine had squealed to be released from her car seat first, so he had unfastened the belts, tickled her soundly, and scooped her out and onto the driveway with ease. Surprised that his partner had been patient enough to remain in her seat, he opened her door, offered her his hand, and pulled her into a warm embrace. Only the sounds of their daughter whining for entry into their home and a snack had pulled them out of their private moment. _

_Booth had pacified their daughter by running over and hugging her just as intently. Temperance had watched and listened as he squatted down in front of his daughter and whispered, "You have to be patient. I've missed your mom today and needed to remind her how much I love her. Your mom is my favorite big girl, Chrissy, but you're my favorite little girl. I love you very much, too."_

_Not dissuaded from her primary focus, his daughter had huffed impatiently, "You always remind both of us that you love us, Daddy! I'm hungry!"_

Tears welled in Temperance's eyes at the memories of that especially happy day.

_So long delayed returning to work, they hadn't taken time to locate all of the items tossed around their home. As they'd stumbled into the house and begun removing the clothing they'd already started opening and shoving out of the way, they communicated their love, their lust, their need to remain connected with every touch, every moan, every tremble, every whisper of the secrets lovers share when they're intimate. They'd been so completely focused on loving and pleasing one another and making the most of their secret getaway that they'd made love wildly and then showered together enjoying the intimacy of an uninterrupted break from everything but "them." Having taken far too long to spend time together and finally realizing that locating their hastily discarded clothing would take too much time, they had rushed to put on different outfits for the return to work. That had been the primary source of discussion at their respective workplaces—they hadn't been to a crime scene but they'd needed to change clothes midday? Both of them? They had been easy targets for snide remarks and teasing. The fact that Booth blushed and blustered and that Brennan smirked wickedly only confirmed what their co-workers had suspected._

_That evening, upon re-entering their home and taking a fresh look at the disaster zone they'd created, they had to work fast to turn picking up scattered clothing into the Laundry Basket game. They'd laughed until they cried that night, remembering how Christine had giggled upon finding her mother's bra tossed over a lampshade. They only hoped she hadn't relayed that story to anyone. Not that anyone she might have confessed their mess-making to (aside from her teachers) would have been shocked or surprised. _

That happy memory was one of so very many—that made this separation so much harder to bear. If this package could bring Booth any of that happiness, then she'd send them weekly until his release.

* * *

><p>"Prisoner 22705, stand up." The voice on the intercom crackled loudly, shattering the echoing silence. He'd heard that command five times since the time Bones had visited. A month had passed since he'd last seen her.<p>

In the interim, he'd had three separate solitary hours out in the yard for exercise and fresh air. Each time, the shock of the bright light of late afternoon had been overwhelming. He'd also needed time to adjust to the intake of God's air—not the manufactured, processed stuff they pumped into his cell. He'd even wished momentarily for sunglasses to shield his eyes from the shock of the sun's rays, but he knew that he wouldn't have put them on even if he'd had some handy. This was real. He was breathing the same air and seeing the same sunlight that his family and friends experienced every day. That simple fact made this time alone outdoors sacred to him. After taking a moment to soak in the environment, he'd immediately stretch and begin jogging around the yard. As he ran lap after lap, he felt so good. The extra freedom of having the entire yard for movement pumped him up. He ran laps, ran wind sprints at different distances within the small fenced area, used the picnic tables for angled pushups, and pulled up on some of the bars available for that activity. Each time when the guards shackled him to take him inside, he'd said a quick prayer of thanks and then made eye contact with the guards just long enough to thank them for his time outside.

His other two departures from the room had been for visits with David, his attorney. No news of a solution yet, but things were happening. David assured him that nobody was giving up and that they would not rest until they exonerated him. He mentioned the possibility of a hearing—long overdue due process—in the near future. As with all such possibilities, Booth refused to think long about it until it happened.

His gut stirred just thinking back about the last conversation he had with his attorney.

"_I should probably hate you," David confessed as he saw his client struggling not to get overexcited about the prospect that he might finally be making small steps toward any kind of justice. _

"_Hate me?" Booth asked sarcastically, "Why? For padding your wallet?"_

"_Your wife is a lovely person, but she sometimes forgets that you are not my only client. She offered to make that official, by the way. She offered to pay my annual salary and my firm's operating expenses if I spent 100% of my time on your case."_

"_Bones did that?" Booth marveled._

"_Don't ever underestimate that woman," David said with a smile. "No, the reason I should hate you is that I now spend more time with my ex-wife than I ever did when we were married."_

"_How is Caroline?" the prisoner inquired with a smile. He had a good idea what would follow._

"_Still tough as nails and riding me hard to get you out of here," David admitted. That was a serious understatement, but he thought it got the point across. "She told me to hug you and kiss you for her. You'll tell her I actually did both when you get out of here, right?"_

_The men smiled in appreciation of the fiery woman they feared and admired in equal portions._

"_That kid, the shrink, he's really sticking his neck out for you. He has been instrumental in finding out information for us. He told me he wanted to make you proud."_

_Booth pursed his lips and nodded, struck by a flash of serious gratitude that his friends were not giving up on him. He was damned lucky, and he'd have to make sure to let the kid know how much he appreciated him when he got out._

Booth was snapped out of his reverie by the sounds of the drawer at the bottom of his door moving. Unless he had lost all track of time, it was not time for a meal. When the drawer first entered his line of sight, he wasn't sure what was in it, but what he found when he peered more closely at the items literally dropped him to his knees. Moving quickly to retrieve the items before the drawer might be moved, he carefully scooped up the treasure trove and placed it in a pile on the floor. Hardly believing what he was seeing, he took his time inspecting what remained of the package Bones had sent. Foregoing everything meant for his physical gratification, he reached first for Christine's picture. He held it and stared at it through glassy eyes, too struck by the details and by the evidence that his daughter was growing up while he missed it happening. Almost afraid to put it down, he placed the picture on his lap and glanced at the wedding photo for a long time. "Bones," he whispered, hoping she would know how much this package would bring him comfort. He pulled out Christine's artwork and all of the letters and read and re-read each slowly, hardly noticing that the envelopes had been discarded and that the letters already had been read by the FBI already and any of the guards who was inclined to be nosy. He treasured every single written word, and vowed to write back as soon as he was able. He saved his wife's letter for last, knowing that it would be the one that moved him most. He smiled at the lone pair of striped socks amid the pile as he pulled them out and put them on. He was moved by the devotional books that his scientifically skeptical wife had sought out for his comfort. Then he squinted at the lump wrapped in clear plastic wrap. His mouth watered as it always did when he retrieved the solitary piece of pie from the diner. He ate it greedily, relishing the familiar taste and aroma and trekking back in his memory to that day in the diner when he'd had pie after several weeks without it and when he and Bones had…. invented the laundry basket game. He sighed…. Damn, he missed her. He missed them all so much. He stacked the letters up and placed them under his bed. Then he moved the artwork and pictures over against the wall and propped them up so that he could see them from his bed. He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes, realizing immediately that he could smell the scent of his wife's perfume on her letter. Just breathing her scent in was healing and reassuring.

Much later, when he could not stand it any longer, he read the words she had written to him. He was stunned by how honest and emotional she had been. The fact that she had written those words knowing that others would read them was awe-inspiring. His brilliant, gorgeous, tender-hearted wife had put her grief and her pain and her fear and her worry on paper for strangers to view. She had created evidence of her feelings for him and her raw need to be with him. Those words on that paper were now the most valuable thing he owned. She'd risked that vulnerability for his sake, for his comfort, to reassure him. He vowed that if he ever got out of this place, that he'd promise her that he would be hers until his very last breath. There was no other way to convey to her the importance of this package to him. She had given him a lifeline—tangible evidence of her love and loyalty and small tokens he could touch to remind himself that he had a life outside these walls and that he would eventually return to it.

His dreams that night were happier. He spent time with his loved ones and made love tenderly to his wife. His escape was so complete that waking was a slap in the face. He was thrown back into the cold, stark harsh environment in which he spent his lonely days separated from the life he revisited in those dreams.


	5. Chapter 5-Not Times for Weak of Heart

_**[A/N: You've survived! You deserve a medal! Here's the last chapter of this misery-filled tale. Thank you for reading here. I could have waited longer to post this chapter (and probably should have), but I want to get this out of my head before what happens on TV unfolds.**_

_**Happy Bones Season 10! Can't wait to see the premiere! If I'm not too caught up in enjoying the new season, I might post a short epilogue to this little tale. Here's hoping what happens on TV will be miserable enough to be realistic but not quite as gut-wrenching as slogging through this story! ~MiseryMaker] ** _

Chapter 5 – Not Times for the Weak of Heart

"Prisoner 22705, stand up." The voice on the intercom crackled loudly, shattering the echoing silence. Booth had no way of knowing the time, but he sensed that it was early-perhaps the middle of the night. It had been another three weeks since he'd heard that sound. Booth was worried. Something had obviously changed because his weekly visits to the yard had suddenly been curtailed without reason or warning, and he had not seen his lawyer in over two weeks.

Booth gave the appearance of waiting patiently as he was shackled. Then he followed the guards down the same path he'd taken before. This time, instead of heading to an interview room or to the visitation cubicles, he was turned right and taken in another direction. On alert because any change in routine or experience could be dangerous, he took in his surroundings. The guards ushered him into a room with no windows and told him to sit down at a table. Then additional armed guards arrived accompanying a barber. The man made quick work of the shave and trim, pausing only when Booth thanked him as he was leaving. Then the guards removed the chains and cuffs. One of the guards motioned toward a table in the corner of the room and told him to put on the items in the box. Booth rushed across the room and inhaled sharply when he saw what was inside.

Shedding the well-worn jumpsuit, he dressed quickly, enjoying the feel of his very own wife beater and boxers sliding next to his skin, almost smiling as he slipped on a new pair of his favorite brand of socks. He donned the starched shirt and suit and tie and laced up his dress shoes. Since he had no mirror, he stood and adjusted his clothing from memory and experience. He had no belt and no cufflinks, but otherwise, he supposed that he looked like a shadow of his former self.

* * *

><p>Shackled again at the door, he was led down a different corridor and out into a transport vehicle. He'd ridden with prisoners in trucks like this before. Being on this side of it was definitely more difficult. He fought back the fear of the unknown and waited to see what happened next. Hours later, once inside the courthouse, he sat patiently at a table and waited, trying not to worry about what was going to happen. His lawyer finally arrived, and the guards removed the shackles but reminded him as they did so that he would be shot if he tried to escape.<p>

"So I'm being formally charged today?" Booth asked David when he settled into his seat. He tried to stay positive, but he feared this respite wouldn't be long. He'd stand up and listen to the charges and then be returned to that hell-hole for another year. At most, he could hope to actually see his wife for a moment without scratched and dulled prison glass separating them. Maybe he'd grasp her hand for a moment as he walked by-only if the guards would allow it. Unable to resist finding something to be hopeful about, he wondered if maybe this would make things more official and lead to more frequent visits from Bones. Finding a silver lining would be difficult, but he knew that he could live for months on the memory of actually touching her again, inhaling her amazing scent, relishing the feeling of her skin against his own.

David cleared his throat and looked at Booth carefully before continuing. He had noticed that his client's long time in solitary had slowed his conversational response times. He often appeared to be lost in thought. Patience seemed appropriate, important when he had such critical information to convey. "No. The formal charges were actually filed weeks ago. They refused to allow you to be there. Highly atypical—against the core of the American legal system having a prisoner not be there to hear the charges filed against him, but that's the damned government for you," David relayed.

"I was your proxy. Your plea was "not guilty." This is an evidentiary hearing. I demanded that they give us the evidence they have against you. I have witnesses and evidence to show that you were defending yourself and your home. They produced the "warrant" those agents were supposedly serving to you that day, but because those arrogant people made mistakes in filing the paperwork to prove that it was served, we have hope. If they produce phony documents, we'll shoot them down. We have some tricks up our sleeve, Seeley. Caroline is ghost first chair with me on this one. If there is any possible way to show the judge what a farce and a conspiracy this was, we'll do it."

Booth nodded, a bit overwhelmed that things had proceeded this far without him knowing about it.

Realizing that this was a good deal of information for his client to digest, David looked him over thoroughly. "We don't have long before the hearing. Have you eaten? Is there anything you need?"

"I'm fine," Booth replied quietly.

"Good. You should know that I'm friends with the bailiff and convinced him to put in a request with the judge not to rush out to start the hearing. Don't get your heart set on it, but when we enter the courtroom, they've agreed to give you five minutes with your wife before we have to set up and get started."

Booth could barely process the thought of touching, holding his wife. The possibility was enough to paralyze him and make breathing normally difficult.

A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door and they were ushered out of the ante room into the courtroom. Sniper senses on alert, Booth looked around quickly to locate his wife. He didn't have to look far-she was right over there on his right. Automatically, he turned to the guard out of habit to ask permission to approach her. The guard nodded.

"Bones. Oh God, Bones," he whispered as he reached for her, but she had already launched herself into his arms. They clutched one another tightly over the low wall separating the parties in the trial from the audience, holding on as if to make up all at once for time spent so very far apart. He whispered into her ear, and she did the same, not even caring who saw or who heard. Moments later, he felt compelled to see her, touch her beautiful face. He pulled back from her strong embrace, gazing down into her tear-filled eyes. He traced his fingertips across the curve of her cheekbone, relishing the freedom to do so as much as he had when they'd first started the romantic part of their relationship.

"I love you," they each confessed before their lips met in a kiss for the ages. Against all logic and reason, their kiss was dramatic and in slow motion and like something scripted in a movie at the same time that it seemed to be chaste and full of desire and full of love and so raw and honest that it was captivating to everyone in the courtroom witnessing the exchange. A hush had fallen over the entire room and few present weren't moved by what they witnessed. When the couple finally came up for air, his forehead rested comfortably on hers, and they whispered of nothing but their mutual love and their hopes for days in which kisses and stolen moments might again be a frequent occurrence.

Seeing the guard moving to separate them, David nodded at him and placed a hand upon Booth's shoulder. "Time's up," he whispered, hating to pull the lovers apart.

He watched as they slowly moved apart and gazed into each other's eyes, the beauty of what they were still communicating evident to all who were watching. David felt a sting of regret for the failure of his marriage to Caroline and the loss of the same sort of desire that had once bound them together that way. One quick glance to her showed him that she was having similar thoughts. He understood her constant support of this couple better than ever-she was protecting them and what they shared from the separation and tragedy that had befallen their own marriage.

Knowing he would be buoyed by a display of fortitude from her, Temperance pulled herself together and told Booth she would be sitting right behind him the entire time. He told her not to worry. That he already had everything he needed. That he loved her. "I'm okay, Bones. Don't worry."

The prosecutor spent the afternoon laying out the evidence against Booth. The bureau had pulled skilled people to testify and make a big deal about the circumstantial evidence and concocted a very impressive case. Blustering and confident enough to be nearly obnoxious, the prosecution took most of the afternoon, assuming that presenting the air-tight case would crush the defense.

* * *

><p>That night, Booth was housed in a heavily guarded cell in the basement of a building across the street instead of being moved back to the prison. Since the facility itself was less stark than solitary confinement at the prison, David had gotten permission to have food from the diner delivered. Visits from loved ones were out of the question, but thanks to Caroline, one of the guards turned out to be someone Booth knew from his days at the Bureau. Booth had helped him out of a jam when a prisoner he'd been guarding had nearly escaped, so the guard was loyal to him. The man played cards with him that night to help pass the time. When the other guard was out of earshot, Jackson told him he knew he wasn't guilty. Booth nodded at him but didn't speak. It felt so good to have someone, anyone, have blind faith in his innocence.<p>

The next morning, Booth sat calmly as David debunked as much of the evidence as he could. He had Bones and Caroline and Sweets and the squints and additional expert consultants testify to poke holes in the evidence. Between their focused answers and clear testimony, each of this supporters shot Booth looks of loyalty and determination. Just making that sort of eye contact with them was encouraging.

This hearing was only about providing enough of a rebuttal to refute and call into question the prosecution's evidence, but with those in attendance, one would have expected a full hearing. Cullen and three other honest, highly regarded senior FBI officials had come out of retirement to be present if called upon to be character witnesses or to attest to Booth's professionalism and dedication to the job. Military officials were available to testify to his stellar record and patriotism. Hours later, Booth took the stand in his own defense-to answer specific questions designed to explain his actions in the proper context—in opposition to the story the prosecutor was telling.

All in all, the defense had been brilliant, focused, and strong. There was nothing more they could have done. Still, there was no way of knowing how far the conspiracy ran. Had they paid off or blackmailed this judge? It was anyone's guess.

At the end of the hearing, the judge dismissed everyone and explained that he'd rule within two weeks on whether the evidence was sufficient to warrant a trial. Booth managed to hug his wife quickly before they led him away. The separation was heart-crushing. Those few moments were everything but they still weren't enough. Letting go of her had ripped part of his soul away. It almost felt as if he'd lost her all over again.

* * *

><p>The long ride back to the prison was difficult after he'd had two days that were so 'normal.' He'd seen people he knew and loved and respected. Facing solitary again without knowing if it would be permanent was daunting. But every time he felt the familiar loneliness and claustrophobia and hopelessness he'd learned how to endure, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, relishing the memory of holding his wife, inhaling her sweet, familiar scent, and feeling her heartbeat race along with his own.<p>

With nothing except time on his hands again, he considered how far gone, how completely dependent upon his wife he'd become. Years earlier, he'd have spewed and sputtered and tried to act all macho about it. He was a manly man; he wasn't some sap who was so transparent about his need for anyone—even a woman he loved. He hadn't been that kind of man then, but he sure as hell was now. He was still strong and smart and capable, but he felt diminished without her by his side. He bet he wouldn't even recognize that supposedly independent man he used to be if he met him now.

Booth fell asleep late that night after praying long and hard that he wouldn't spend the rest of his days in that barren place. He prayed for everyone he loved as he always did. He added prayers developed and more earnestly felt recently. Finally able to see past his outrage, he prayed for God to turn the hearts of the people who had framed him and put him in here. He prayed for the judge to be wise and unaffected by the bribes and pressures that might befall him. He prayed for the strength to endure this imprisonment. He prayed for God's company and comfort. He prayed for a stronger faith.

Prayers completed, he let his thoughts drift back to the way that Bones had smelled, the sparkle of her eyes, the flush on her cheeks after he'd kissed her and she'd kissed him right back. His fingertips tingled from the memory of touching her cheek and holding her. He reached up and touched his own forehead, warmed instantly from the memory of leaning against hers and promising to love her forever. He slipped into sleep slowly, hugging the meager pillow as an inferior substitute for the woman he loved more than life itself.

* * *

><p>Ten days later, he was told by the crackle of the speaker to stand up again. He was then transported to an interview room. He tried to prepare himself for a barrage of questions from investigators determined to lock him up under the prison. Instead, he was met by his attorney. The man rose and smiled when Booth entered the room. "Mr. Booth, I bring good news. The judge dismissed the charges, telling the prosecutor the case was too weak. He also issued a request for a full inquiry at the bureau and the Justice Department—to substantiate our counterclaim of a conspiracy."<p>

"That's good," Booth replied, amazed by the turn of events. "Really good."

"What's even better is that, after a few hours for the paperwork to be processed, you will be released—a free man."

"Today?" Booth asked, truly unable to comprehend what he was hearing.

"Your wife plans to come pick you up," Mr. Barron explained.

Almost unable to comprehend that this was real and not some twisted dream designed to make him crazy, Booth pondered for a few moments and then made an unexpected request. "If you wouldn't mind, please ask her to meet me at home. If you could just arrange for a car to pick me up…."

After looking at him thoughtfully for a moment, his attorney cut in, "I will be happy to drive you home."

* * *

><p>Three and a half hours later...<p>

If he was dreaming, Booth had decided about an hour ago that he did not want to wake up. If he had another brain tumor and his brain was creating a better alternate universe, then he wanted to stay within it. Booth had gone back to his cell unshackled. Left there to wait, he'd taken the huge risk of piling up the few photos he'd been allowed to keep in his cell. He left the latest library book borrowed on the bed. He'd gathered up the pair of socks he'd been permitted to keep with him. Packing up so few items took all of five minutes.

That task complete, he had nothing to do except wait and hope… finally hope. Seconds ticked by as slowly as glaciers crawl across the tundra. This sort of waiting—waiting for release, for freedom, for the hell of the last few months to end—it was crippling. He had to focus on his breathing to keep it even and calm. He had to occupy his mind and distract himself from thinking too much about what he was waiting for. Having been without any reason to hope for so long, just a sliver of hope was enough to weigh down the strong man.

Amazingly enough, his cell door finally opened, and the guard called for him to bring his things. Booth walked slowly down the corridor, his heart racing at the prospect of being free again after so many long, torturous months. He was processed, signed some forms, and handed some clothing. He assumed that it was clothing Bones had sent to the hospital because it wasn't what he had worn the night of the shootout. After changing into his street clothes and pausing to relish how good it felt to wear his own things, Booth rode in another Lee Prison van to the gate where the guards wished him well. He noticed that they all looked at him differently now. They must have heard the story. They looked at him now as if he were a cop-one of them. So much change in just one day. It was overpowering.

Treading softly as if to avoid notice out of habit, he walked through the gate and into the parking lot. David Barron was waiting there for him in his large sedan. On knees wobbling slightly betraying his utter shock and relief, Booth slipped into the car and immediately buckled his seatbelt. Planning a future of abiding by all laws for as long as he lived, Booth was never going to ride in a car without buckling up again.

Realizing that the man needed time to consider his changed circumstances, David drove across town in silence sprinkled with soft music from the radio. After about 10 minutes, Booth looked over at him. "I don't know how to begin to thank you," he spoke, his voice filled with the tension of emotions held at bay.

"No thanks necessary. I am glad the system finally worked. The good guy got out. I'm just sorry you had to go through all of this."

Booth nodded. After a few moments, he asked, "So… was Bones angry that I didn't want her to pick me up?"

His attorney laughed. "Well, she was pretty frustrated at first. Enlightened me in very clear terms about her intense physical need to get reacquainted with you. She even pondered aloud that you were just afraid she'd accost you and cause the two of you to get arrested for public indecency."

"Oh boy…" Booth offered. His wife was a complete lunatic sometimes.

"But then she mentioned that you probably wanted your reunion to be private for emotional reasons," David added, drawing a nod from the man sitting beside him. Bones might be a lunatic, but she got him. All these years later, the things he had to explain to her about himself and about their relationship had grown quite short. He was proud of how far she'd come. She'd earned it.

Another protracted silence followed.

About 20 minutes into the trip, David told Booth to grab the bag on the floorboard. Inside, Booth found his favorite sunglasses, a new smartphone, a small photo album packed with photos of Christine, and a note from his wife.

* * *

><p>"I took the liberty of selecting a new phone for you and for entering as many of your contacts as I could on very short notice. You have a long trip ahead of you. Take time to call your family and friends and to reconnect. I long to speak with you, Booth, but I suspect that talking by telephone will be difficult for both of us. I will try to be patient and wait until I see you to remind you how very much I love you and how fortunate I am to be your wife… your lifelong partner.<p>

~Bones"

* * *

><p>He sniffed a few times and looked out the window. Not that he really cared if his lawyer saw him all choked up. He just needed a minute to process all of this. He was free—really free. The worst of this ordeal was over. His brilliant, beautiful, amazing wife was foregoing the chance to talk to him privately for the first time in months to generously allow him time to talk to other people he loved and to whom he owed thanks. God, he didn't think it was possible to love anyone more than he loved her. And yet he suspected he'd love her even more tomorrow.<p>

Finally able to see the screen clearly, he typed a quick text to her to let her know they were on the road. "I love you. I adore you. God, I miss you. Thank you, Bones, for the phone, for waiting, for not giving up, for… everything. See you in about 8 hours."

Booth called his son and nearly broke down upon hearing Parker's enthusiastic voice. Fortunately, his son was too excited to realize that his father was being unusually quiet during the call. Promising him a visit soon, Booth hung up and took a deep breath.

Not even pretending not to be eavesdropping, David blurted out, "I'm almost blubbering like a baby just imagining how hard all of this must be for you. Cry, for God's sake, man. I'm feeling like a sissy over here sniffling!" The lighthearted joke eased Booth's tension. But all that benefit was lost when he called his grandfather. Being called "Shrimp" nearly made him come unglued. But concern for his grandfather won the battle of emotions. Pops sounded weak and tired, and Booth's temper flared just thinking about how much precious time he'd lost with him. He promised to visit soon. He dialed his mom and got her voicemail. He left her a message and then took a break.

The next call he found the courage to make wasn't made to family. "Cherie!" Caroline chimed when she heard his voice. "Is it none other than Seeley Gorgeous Booth calling my cell phone? 'Bout damned time!" He laughed… feeling strange realizing that it was the first time he'd done so in months. "Thought I was going to have to take on an extra job so that I could hire Clint Eastwood to come out and Alcatraz you out of that place!"

"Thanks for getting David to help us out. And for everything you did. I mean it."

"Pshaw, Cherie. You know you'd have done the same for me. You and that wacky scientist of yours are family. And my family are simply not allowed to remain imprisoned. Not while I'm alive and still kicking. Not unless I'm the one who put them behind bars. Is that no account ex-husband of mine around?"

Booth offered the phone to David, smiling as the man took a deep breath to prep himself for the force that was Caroline Julian.

When he finally had his phone returned later, Booth couldn't muster the energy to make any more emotional phone calls. Grateful beyond belief and determined to show it, he shot text messages to Sweets and Cam and Jared and Aldo and the squints thanking them for their support and their help and for taking care of his family. Then, emotionally drained, he pocketed the phone. He was a lousy passenger most days, but he had too much on his mind and he wasn't fit for driving—not yet. Trying to relax, he stretched out and kicked off his shoes, but sleep wouldn't come. He stared at the passing scenery, noticing little details about the birds and flowers and trees and the rolling hills—things a free man could all too easily take for granted. Not him. Not ever again.

_**[A/N: Felt right leaving things there, but there is an epilogue.]**_


	6. Chapter 6 - Epilogue

_**[A/N: Wow. I... uh... Still processing the S10 Premiere. It was mind-melting. I should change my username-or donate it to the Bones TV writers or something. Yeah. That was truly miserable. Great TV, but oh so painful to watch.**_

_** I am so glad this was already written because I would not be able to write anything coherent after events on TV. **__**I had a great deal of angst about this epilogue because the tone of it is so much lighter than the rest of the story. I worried that those of you who might have enjoyed the story would find this too light, or contrived, or just off-not a fit with the rest. But after that premiere, I don't feel as bad about it. At least it's not going to torture people still wounded and bleeding from watching what happened on TV. Besides, it's an epilogue-just a window from the story toward a brighter future. If you hate it for being happy-ish, then just make up an alternate version for your own enjoyment.**_

_**Warning: a character who might be painful to think of now is in this epilogue. Not a primary part-or I'd probably have deleted it, but here nonetheless. Sigh. Hugs to you still grieving the loss. Hopefully S10 will heal our broken hearts in time.]  
><strong>_

Epilogue—The Things That They Missed

About three and a half hours later, David pulled his car into the entrance for a local winery in Blacksburg, Virginia. Booth shot David a look. Stopping at a winery hadn't been anything he'd anticipated. Truthfully, he had been hoping to forego stops of any kind if they took him back to his family sooner. Not wanting to be rude to the man to whom he owed his freedom, he exercised all the patience he could muster. "Are you a wine connoisseur?"

"Not really. But that's not why we're stopping here."

They followed the long drive past the winery and up to a lovely Victorian house. As David parked the car, he turned to his client. "I have some other urgent business back in the city. I am sorry that I can't stay here and drink a toast to your freedom. But I imagine that you'll forgive my hasty departure."

He reached over to shake Booth's hand, slipping a key into his palm and surprising him. "Temperance is waiting in the room, top of the stairs on the right. The enormity of facing a real reunion with his wife hitting him full force, Booth nodded and swallowed hard before slipping his belongings in to the bag Bones had sent for him. "I owe you, David. Thank you so much for all your hard work. Thanks for getting me back to my family."

"Go on. Get out of here. I've learned the hard way that keeping your wife waiting is a dangerous course of action."

Booth leaned in to thank him once more after he'd closed the door to the car. Then, bumping his fist on the door and shooting a wave of farewell over his shoulder, he sprinted up the steps to the house. David watched the man run toward the woman who loved him, sniffling again for good measure. He'd have taken their case for free. Not that he would go back now and refuse the ample payment he'd received from the man's wife. He had made enough money to afford that vacation he'd always promised Caroline but never delivered. He smiled, imagining how annoyed she'd be if he told her that fact. Even if he didn't get her goat, it felt good doing the right thing and freeing an unfairly imprisoned man.

As he entered the house, Booth was greeted by a smiling middle-aged man. "Welcome to our bed and breakfast, Mr. Booth. I'm Jim. We'll get acquainted with you later. Unless you need something, your wife is already checked in. Room on the right at the top of the stairs."

Booth smiled at the man and shook his hand. Then he took the steps two at a time to the second floor. He paused on the landing, barely believing that he was actually here… that he wasn't dreaming… that this wasn't some cruel joke or a brain tumor. One step, another fervent prayer... "God, thank you, God..."

Knowing it wasn't necessary, he felt the urge to warn her of his arrival. He didn't want anything-even her being temporarily startled-to spoil their reunion. He rapped softly on the door the way he'd knocked his knuckles against the door frame in her office hundreds of times. Without waiting for a response, he opened the door, barely pushing hard enough to close it behind him before rushing to her and losing himself in her embrace.

They clung to one another, almost afraid to relax and enjoy this precious time together. Tears falling, she whispered, "It's not rational to cry when I am so utterly happy. Yet I cannot stop the lacrimal fluid from accumulating."

He chuckled and held her more tightly. "Why are we here? Never mind, I don't care. Can we just stay like this… holding each other… forever?" he asked, nuzzling her ear and placing light kisses there and in her hair.

"As impossible as that would be, I, too, find the thought appealing," she responded, moving to kiss her husband deeply.

Falling blissfully back into old habits, they kissed one another until each was breathless, paused momentarily to gasp for air, and then lost themselves in the able touch of lovers practiced in skillfully igniting and indulging in passion. When the inevitable rush of hormones long held at bay hit them, Booth paused, gazing at her with eyes dark and full of love and desire for her. "I dreamed of this, of making sweet, tender love to you slowly… reveling for hours. But it's been so long and I want you so much, Bones."

She smiled at the prospect of the tender lovemaking they both enjoyed so much, "We can be slow and sentimental later, Booth. I want you right now, too. So much."

* * *

><p>Hours later, the pair was lying on the bed spooning, still whispering words of love and affection. Booth had instituted a five-minute rule—allowing her out of his sight and out of the bed for only five minutes for restroom breaks or a glass of water. And after every break, he had met her at the door and pulled her right back to bed. Almost surprising him, she had done the same the few times that he had crept away. Their bodies appeased somewhat but nowhere near completely satisfied or willing to part for more than a few moments, the lovers relished the time to touch and kiss and cherish one another after so much time spent apart. They spent hours talking-and not talking—reconnecting as they had both wanted for so long.<p>

A knock at the door stirred them from a near slumber hours later. Booth had leapt up—half afraid cops were outside to take him away from her again. She launched herself into his arms, reassuring him that he could relax, that he was free, that they were together. Then she smiled and confessed, "Anticipating that we might miss the evening meal, I requested room service. It's waiting outside."

"Mmmm... Room service and Bones, my favorite food groups," he whispered before kissing her so deeply that even she stopped thinking for a few moments.

Smiling at the dazed expression on her face, he jumped up, donned the "His" robe from the back of the door, and went out to retrieve their food.

As they ate their meal and drank too much wine, Booth joked, "Is it rude of me to stay here hoping that I never have to leave this room... or this bed?"

His wife smiled at him. "I share your enthusiasm for making love and staying here as long as possible. I did make plans for tomorrow that involve wearing clothing and going outdoors. I thought you might enjoy the fresh air. Should I cancel them?"

"I was joking, Bones. Well, mostly joking," he said as he reached over and pulled her into his lap. "I'll go anywhere you want. Do anything you want. Always."

"We can decide in the morning," she sighed contentedly as she leaned into the curve of his shoulder where it met his clavicle and cervical vertebrae.

Pausing only a moment to relish the feel of her head in her "spot" and enjoy her literally melting against him, he continued, "What did you plan?"

"A hike. They offer picnics packed and romantic hikes. It's not a group outing... just you... and me... and some food and wine... and beautiful scenery," she offered, watching him carefully to see if he looked apprehensive or stressed about the plans she had made for them. He looked happy-happier than she'd seen him look in such a long time.

"I have all the beautiful scenery I need here," he whispered before kissing her tenderly. "But it sounds great, Bones. Thanks."

That night, both slept soundly, wrapped in one another's arms and determined to stay that way. This night, this time was too sacred even for the familiar dreams that regularly haunted each of them to interrupt.

* * *

><p>The next morning, the couple made it downstairs long enough for Booth to eat a huge breakfast and for Temperance to have her typical healthy fare and to confirm their plans for later that day. He eyed her hungrily from across the room as she spoke with the owner about their plans. "On your honeymoon?" another guest asked him as he gazed longingly at his wife.<p>

"No. Just getting acquainted again after being too long apart," he confessed.

"It's obvious how much you love her," his wife offered. "And how much she loves you, too."

Booth smiled and nodded. Then he tried to make conversation even though his eyes never strayed from his lover for long. "How about you? Special occasion?"

"Fortieth anniversary," they couple said at the same time. Then the man offered, "It keeps the spark alive getting out and seeing younger couples like you who are so much in love."

"Congratulations," Booth offered them warmly. "God willing, we'll be as blessed as you two."

* * *

><p>Later, arm in arm, the Booths made their way out of the house for their hike. True to form, Temperance had mapped out an itinerary with specific landmarks for them to see and eagerly led Booth from site to site on a mission to complete her itinerary. Booth relished every opportunity to distract her from her mission. Uncharacteristically and only because she was too content to be spending time with him, she complained half-heartedly about his diversions. Other times she was incapable of complaining because he was kissing her as if his life depended on it.<p>

The fresh air was good for Booth, and the company was healing for both reunited lovers. They talked for hours and relished even the companionable silences as they trekked through the woods. They found a secluded spot for their picnic that was far off the path that it was private and made love tenderly in the shady alcove. Instead of napping there afterward, they opted to travel back to the bed and breakfast to avoid what Temperance insisted was a high chance of late afternoon thunderstorms. When she insisted that the forecast was threatening, they bickered. Booth kept pointing to the cloudless sky and insisting that it couldn't possibly rain. She insisted that it was highly probable. The ridiculous disagreement was more healing than sentimental speeches. It was an old habit that was uniquely theirs and indicative that they were still themselves.

About a mile before they made it back, Temperance turned to her husband and put her arms around him. "Thank you for this time alone. I... I needed time with you... to catch up... to make love... to let you know how much I missed you."

"Bones, whatever you need. Just name it. I love you so much. This is good for me, too. I do miss Christine, though. I can't wait to see her, too."

They embraced a long time and then she took his hand to lead him back along the path. "C'mon, Booth. I have a surprise for you."

Had she prepared him, Booth wouldn't have believed it. As they walked back up to the building, Booth saw a "Welcome Home, Booth!" sign hung between two tall trees. And there to greet him were all the people he'd called the day before. The hike had obviously been intended to keep them away long enough for their friends and family to arrive and prepare for the party. They all watched awestruck as Booth fell to his knees as Christine leapt from her grandfather's arms to run to him. Holding her tightly, he finally broke down and wept. Normally, he prized his privacy enough to hide his sadness from others, but the sheer joy of holding his daughter made that impossible. Realizing that he might be uncomfortable with others watching, Temperance walked around to stand between her family and its crowd of well-wishers. But even she realized that her efforts were unnecessary. Nobody there was dry-eyed watching the tender reunion. As Booth held his child tightly, he reached up to hold his wife's hand. Then she knelt so that he could wrap his arms around both of them. Even those who'd pretended at first not to be moved by the reunion gave up after that happened.

Eventually Christine started giggling and wiggling and insisting that she was being crushed. Following her lead, the couple rose, and Booth lifted his daughter into his arms. Never putting her down for a moment, he made the rounds—hugging Pops and then bear-hugging Parker and then shaking hands with everyone else who didn't go ahead and hug him without asking permission. The atmosphere was appropriately festive. Those gathered spent the afternoon eating and drinking wine and playing games and talking.

When pressed, Temperance told Booth that she'd rented the entire facility so that their friends and family could stay there. Sweets had to leave early to head back for a hot date, but he got all choked up when Booth bear-hugged him and then insisted that they meet soon to catch up. Aldo rode back with Sweets since he had to work. Pops, Max, and Parker were sharing a room, Angela, Hodgins, and Michael Vincent were in another, Cam and Aristoo were in another. Caroline was leaving to stay with friends in Roanoke. Booth's mother planned to call them that night because she was away on a trip out of the country and unable to make it to the party.

* * *

><p>Much later, as they were all splitting up to head to their respective rooms, Christine cleared her throat loudly to announce to everyone still there. "I love my daddy, and I am so glad he is back. I wanted to stay in the room with him and with Mommy, but Aunt Angela says that I must have a sleepover with Michael so that Mommy and Daddy can play the Laundry Basket game again." With that, she plopped down, took off her shoes, and handed her socks to her father. "You can throw my socks around the room with yours and Mommy's clothes."<p>

Blushing, Booth scooped up his daughter and whispered things a doting father says to his beloved little girl. After he hugged her tightly, he reminded her, "We have a date for pancakes in the morning, Chrissy. I love you so much." She kissed his cheek and squirmed to get down. As she followed Hodgins to the room where they'd sleep, the adults exchanged knowing looks—some of gratitude for Booth's return and others that screamed "get in there and enjoy more kid-free time."

* * *

><p>As they disrobed and slipped into bed, Temperance turned to her husband. "It's so good to be home. Metaphorically, I mean."<p>

"I know what you mean, Bones. I know exactly what you mean."

They made sweet love, promising to cherish each other as much always as they did right then. Their future was by no means resolved, but conversations about the future and the short- and long-term impacts of this situation on all of them could wait for another day. They were back together and ready to face the future and anything else that happened—together.

_**[A/N: The bed and breakfast in this epilogue is loosely based upon the Beliveau Estate Winery and Recreational Venue in Blacksburg, VA. I have no association with that facility, but it looks and sounds delightful. I found its website in general research about hotels and bed and breakfast inns in that area. Thank you sincerely for reading here. I am honored that you spent time reading this story. ~MiseryMaker]**_


End file.
